A Marriage of Equals

by Elizabeth Rolls

  ‘That you’d lived in Jamaica? Owned slaves? Your mother mentioned it in passing.’

  She made to step past him—the hand on her wrist, the merest touch, checked her. ‘My mother?’

  ‘She called on me.’

  He cursed under his breath. ‘I’m sorry.’ He took her hand between both of his. She did not pull it back, but she forced her hand to lie passive in his.

  ‘Why did you not tell me?’ she asked. ‘Did you think you could not tell me? That it wouldn’t matter?’

  He let out another frustrated curse. ‘It looks like that, I know. And believe me, it wasn’t something I wanted to have to tell you.’ He caught her other hand, raised them both between them. ‘As it turned out, events moved rather too fast. I really wasn’t intending to get shot that night.’

  ‘You were going to tell me then?’

  ‘Afterwards, yes,’ he said. ‘I thought we might return to your apartment, and I could tell you. Before that, well, there was Kit and we were busy planning her escape.’

  She bit her lip. ‘And then you were shot. But you had decided to tell me?’

  He frowned. ‘No. That sounds as though it were something I might have decided not to tell you. That was never a possibility. From the moment—’ He broke off, cleared his throat.

  ‘From the moment?’ she prompted.

  ‘From the moment I knew that I wanted you, that we wanted each other,’ he said, ‘I was always going to tell you. Before we became lovers. I’m sorry.’

  The street was quiet save for the lively scrape of a fiddle in the Red Lion. Light spilled from a few windows and the lantern Psyché carried gave a little more.

  ‘You were going to tell me.’ She believed that. ‘What have you to be sorry for?’

  ‘My past. If you find it unforgivable—’

  ‘You were a child. I don’t blame you for that. And if you’ve been working for Huntercombe all these years something changed for you.’

  He let out a breath. ‘I heard Clarkson speak when I was up at Oxford. Thomas Clarkson, the Abolitionist.’

  ‘I’ve met him.’

  ‘Then you’ll understand that he forced me to think, to question the whole basis of my family’s wealth.’ A short, harsh laugh broke from him. ‘They were horrified when I came down for the summer. Every effort was made to return me to my senses.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘Psyché, if you no longer want me—’

  ‘I do want you.’ More than she could possibly say, more than she would have believed she could want any man a month ago. And now he was leaving London. Perhaps for months. ‘Will you write to me from Cornwall?’

  Her breath caught as his free arm came around her and she found herself a great deal closer to the warmth and temptation of his body than she had intended.

  For an instant time hovered in the eternity of maybe, but then he seemed to recollect himself and eased back, breaking the spell.

  ‘I’m not going to Cornwall.’

  ‘Not going to Cornwall?’ Her pulse beat wildly, insanely.

  ‘I’m remaining in London to see to some business for Huntercombe.’

  They stepped off the pavement. He’d be in Grosvenor Square, but—

  ‘With your...permission, I thought to take a room at the Lion. For...er...appearances’ sake.’

  Her pulse was now a dancing, lilting rhythm that sang and fizzed all through her. ‘A room at the Lion.’ God help her, she was doing a passable imitation of a parrot!

  ‘I can stable a horse there and I believe they offer a good laundry service.’ He sounded utterly reasonable.

  ‘Convenient.’ Wonderful. She’d found an original word and they were on the other side of the street without, she’d swear, her feet touching the ground once.

  ‘I thought so,’ he said, still with that maddening, wicked gravity in his voice. ‘I have your permission, then? I may come to you?’ Only the tautness of his arm under her hand betrayed the tension in him.

  Her permission. Instead of simply taking the room and presenting her with a fait accompli, he was asking if she wanted that. If she would welcome him into her bed, rather than assuming she would fall at his feet in gratitude.

  She strove to match his seeming calm. An almost impossible task when her feet danced an inch above the ground and her pulse bubbled like champagne. ‘On one condition.’

  ‘Name it.’

  ‘That after your business for the day is done, you don’t spend too much time in your room at the Lion.’

  There was a short silence. ‘That’s your only condition?’

  It surprised her, too. They had reached the front door of The Phoenix. She unlocked the door and stared at the key before holding it out to him.

  ‘You’ll need this. I’ve a spare, so you can let yourself in after—’

  She stopped at his startled expression. Oh, God! She’d been too bold. ‘I’m sorry. I thought... I thought you meant to stay tonight.’

  His silence was damning. She’d shocked him. Perhaps even disgusted him with her eagerness and—

  He took the key and his swift, urgent kiss, the arms that closed hard around her, banished all thought of having shocked and disgusted him. ‘Sweetheart,’ he murmured at last against her temple, ‘I wasn’t expecting the keys to the kingdom.’

  She took a shaken breath. She hadn’t been expecting to hand them over.

  * * *

  Will strode down to the Red Lion, passing a small, black carriage whose driver was huddled into his coat and muffler. A wonder the poor devil hadn’t sought shelter for himself and his horses at the Red Lion, even if the horses were rugged up. He dismissed it from his mind as he turned into the yard.

  Huntercombe’s coachman stuck his head out of a stall.

  ‘Hitch ’em up, Mr Will?’

  ‘Yes. He’s ready, Masters.’ Will thought, for all of five seconds, about simply leaving a message for Huntercombe with the coachman...he couldn’t do it. Simply couldn’t do it.

  ‘I’ll walk back, and let his lordship know you’re coming.’

  ‘Aye, Mr Will.’ Masters removed a rug. ‘Won’t be long.’

  * * *

  After checking the kitchen fire, Psyché hurried up the stairs to the apartment, fizzing with nerves she had never known before. Somehow, although there had been other men in her life, this was different. She wanted more. More from herself, more from him. She’d given him a key.

  What was she thinking?

  An affair. It could be no more than that. A very special affair, perhaps, but no more. She had decided years ago that marriage was a risk she dared not take. Not when marriage put every scrap of power into a husband’s hands. Even though her inheritance had been tied up six ways from Sunday as Uncle Theo had once expressed it, she shuddered at the thought of submitting to the power of any man.

  She reached the small landing and pushed the door open. Her dreams of marriage had died when she was seventeen.

  Besides, Will was white. He might be fond of her, might care for her, he might even think he loved her. But he would never wish to marry her. So they were both safe from—

  She nearly dropped the lantern as a figure arose from one of the fireside chairs.

  * * *

  Huntercombe was browsing among the books in the shop with Selbourne when Will tapped on the door. His lordship looked up and smiled, tucking a book under his arm. He said something to Selbourne, who nodded as they walked to the door.

  ‘Thank you for a pleasant evening, Ignatius.’ Huntercombe shook the older man’s hand. ‘Will, you might be so kind as to arrange payment for this volume since you are remaining in London.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’ Will smothered a laugh. Huntercombe rarely escaped a bookshop unscathed. ‘Goodnight, Mr Selbourne. Thank you for supper.’

  Selbourne snorted, hol
ding out a hand for Will to shake. ‘Thank you. It’s good to see you recovered. Come by again. You’ll always be welcome.’

  Huntercombe adjusted his muffler. ‘Don’t stand in the cold, Ignatius. The carriage will be along very shortly.’

  Selbourne gripped his hand. ‘Thank you again, Hunt. I can never repay—’

  ‘Don’t be a damned fool. Go inside before you catch your death and I have to explain that to everyone.’

  Selbourne complied, closing the door behind them.

  Will cleared his throat. ‘Ah, sir. There’s something I must tell you.’

  ‘You’re not coming home tonight, are you, Will?’

  ‘I’m not—’ He stared. For pity’s sake—was the man a mind reader? And was he about to have a glove slapped in his face?

  But Huntercombe’s expression did not suggest anger or sorrow. Rather, he looked worried...

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Hunt.’

  ‘What?’

  Huntercombe sighed. ‘You’ve been my secretary for seven years, Will. You know me as well as any man alive. I certainly consider you my friend, despite nearly twenty years between us. It’s Hunt.’

  Will was speechless for a moment. ‘I... I’m not sure I can do that.’ Cambourne had said very much the same thing, but Huntercombe? That was different. He realised with a shock that he thought of Huntercombe more as a father than anything else.

  ‘You’ll get used to it,’ Huntercombe said drily. He sighed. ‘I certainly do not have any right to interfere with your private life, Will. Nor hers, but when I see Psyché, before I see an intelligent, beautiful woman, I see a little girl many thought Staverton ought to have quietly sent back to Jamaica.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘I see a vulnerable child for whom Staverton enlisted my protection should she ever need it and he was not there to give it. However, Psyché has made it very clear that she wishes to chart her own course. While there are certainly instances where I would step in to protect her whether she liked it or not, this is not one of them.’

  ‘You do not think that I am taking advantage of her?’

  Huntercombe laughed. ‘She is more than capable of sending you to the rightabout should you attempt it. Besides, I know you rather better than that, Will. Your mother, though—’

  ‘My mother has nothing to say to this.’

  ‘On the contrary. She had a great deal to say.’

  After a moment during which Will absorbed the fact that his mother had apparently confronted Huntercombe over Psyché, he said, ‘I beg your pardon, sir. I hope—’

  ‘She wished me to use my influence with you.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I’m afraid I told her that the only influence I had ever exerted over you was to encourage you to think for yourself. Ah. Here comes the carriage.’ Huntercombe held out his hand. ‘Goodnight, Will. I will be back in London in about a month.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Who—Lucius? What are you doing here? And how did you get in?’

  Psyché’s heart hammered. She had locked, bolted and barred the back door before leaving for supper, and the front door... Yes, she’d had to unlock it—

  ‘I borrowed Staverton’s key, of course.’ He shrugged. ‘How should I have known when you might be home? I was hardly going to wait in the street!’

  His arrogance took her breath away. ‘Give it to me.’

  He looked down his nose at her. ‘Give you what?’

  ‘My key. You have no right to it.’

  He took it from his pocket and dropped it on the table. ‘There.’

  She stalked over and took it. Not that it mattered now. She would have to change the locks... Then it hit her. Fear knotted in her belly, chilled her. ‘Uncle Theo—is something wrong with him?’

  Lucius looked surprised. ‘No. Not as far as I know. Why should there be?’

  Relief edged her rising suspicion. ‘Because I can’t think of a single reason he would have let you “borrow” my key. Which means you took it without his permission.’ The smirk on his face told her she was right.

  ‘So, Lucius, why are you here?’ She kept her gaze on his face, saw the flare of outrage at her familiarity wipe away the smirk.

  She had hoped he did not know where she lived. But if he’d seen the Runners’ report... Her skin crawled. This man who would have forced Kit into marriage was the same man who would have condemned her to a living death.

  He shifted. ‘This business the other week—Carshalton mistaking you for his daughter.’ He manufactured a concerned expression. ‘Surely it’s only natural I should wish to assure myself you were not harmed.’

  She considered telling him he’d left it a little late for plausibility, but decided to play the game out. ‘I was not harmed at all. Rather Mr Barclay was wounded.’ That much he would already know.

  ‘Quite so, quite so. Most unfortunate. Huntercombe’s secretary, I believe.’ Lucius paced a little, glancing about him with a little sneer. ‘Not quite what you’re used to after Highwood House, is it? And not even a maid to lend you countenance.’

  ‘I’m not lonely.’ She drifted, seemingly aimless, but got the sofa between them. ‘What did you wish to speak about?’

  His mouth hardened. ‘This business of Carshalton’s daughter—Catherine.’

  ‘Is that her name?’ If she could get him talking, he might reveal something.

  ‘Yes. You must know that I am very distressed at her disappearance.’

  ‘Oh?’

  He seemed not to know quite what to do with that. ‘You did not know that I was—am—betrothed to Miss Carshalton?’

  ‘I had heard that,’ she admitted.

  He nodded. ‘Yes. A nice thing when one’s bride vanishes! If she cannot be recovered soon, her reputation will be in tatters!’

  ‘That would be very dreadful for you,’ Psyché said mildly.

  ‘Exactly. She must be found. The thing is, we know that Selbourne arranged her abduction—’

  ‘I thought she ran away?’

  ‘No such thing!’ He looked outraged. ‘She had no reason to run away. She was about to make a very fine match, much to her benefit.’

  ‘But why would Mr Selbourne abduct her?’ Psyché allowed shock to creep into her voice. ‘I thought he was fond of her? I mean, if she were about to marry so happily?’

  Lucius gave her a condescending glance. ‘Selbourne’s vaunted affection is no deeper than his desire to get his hands on a portion of Carshalton’s fortune.’

  ‘Fancy that.’ Psyché heard a faint thump as the bar on the front door dropped into place.

  ‘I do not know what you may have been told, but it is most important that Catherine is found as soon as possible. Carshalton is offering a reward for information.’

  ‘A reward.’ So that was it. A bribe. ‘How interesting. Perhaps Carshalton should have mentioned that before shooting poor Mr Barclay.’

  Lucius scowled. ‘Your “poor Mr Barclay” is a scoundrel who has misled you very seriously. The involvement of Huntercombe in this shocking business—’

  ‘You aren’t suggesting he wants to marry Miss Carshalton?’ Psyché asked. ‘He’s already married, you know. Besides, abducting heiresses doesn’t seem at all the sort of thing he would do.’ She kept her voice calm, but every instinct screamed a warning.

  ‘Huntercombe has some baseless grudge against Carshalton,’ Lucius said. ‘He has hit upon this way of revenging himself by abducting Catherine to help his old colleague Selbourne and ensuring that her reputation is besmirched. The involvement of his secretary confirms it. Owing to your limited understanding of the habits of good society, you have been very foolish, Psyché, but if you co-operate—’

  ‘Permit me to sum up, Lucius.’ Psyché spoke clearly, praying Will would hear her and realise she was not alone. Her singing master would have been pr
oud of the projection she achieved. ‘You believe that Lord Huntercombe arranged the abduction of Miss Carshalton for Mr Selbourne with the assistance of his secretary, Mr Barclay. And that I assisted them?’

  His right hand moved towards his coat pocket and Psyché stilled utterly.

  ‘No doubt they duped you with some tale or other, but if you won’t—’

  * * *

  Will had heard enough.

  ‘It must have been quite a tale, Winthrop.’ He stalked into the apartment, his hand on his sword. ‘Perhaps you would care to explain your presence?’

  Winthrop stared. ‘Who the devil are you, sir? And how dare you simply walk in here as if—’

  ‘As if he were invited?’ Psyché’s voice put sugar to the blush. ‘As opposed to having stolen a key from Staverton House?’

  Cold anger smoked through Will’s veins. ‘He did what?’

  ‘Who is this?’ Winthrop demanded.

  Will turned to him slowly. ‘Will Barclay.’ He firmed his grip on the sword. ‘I believe you were saying something about my involvement in abducting a young lady?’

  Winthrop scowled. ‘Listen, Barclay. You’ve made a grave mistake becoming involved in this. Whatever grudge Huntercombe thinks he has against Carshalton—’

  ‘Grudge,’ Will repeated the word thoughtfully. ‘Yes. I suppose a man could be construed as having a grudge if someone attempted to have his ten-year-old stepson killed. Very petty indeed. But I believe it is time for you to be leaving.’

  He glanced at Psyché. ‘I’ll see your visitor out, shall I?’

  ‘We will see him out.’ The edge on her voice suggested that any request for her to remain safely upstairs would not be appreciated. He merely nodded and gestured for Winthrop to precede him.

  ‘After you, Winthrop. Psyché, will you bring the lantern?’

  For one blazing instant he thought Winthrop would do something stupid, but the fellow turned on his heel and stalked out.